The Murder of Rufus Scrimgeour
by skyflytress
Summary: HPDH Spoiler. Paranoia has taken its toll on the Minister of Magic as he desperately trying to avoid his inevitable death. Listen to his final thoughts and see how the Ministry deals with what has happened right underneath their noses.
1. Rightful Paranoia

**Disclaimer:** All of these characters belong to the talented J.K. Rowling, not me. Now to the story…

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Rufus Scrimgeour, Minister of Magic, sat in his office at the Ministry of Magic, the fingers on his right hand twitching uncontrollably as he tried to read the newly proposed Muggle-Born Treatment law from Dolores Umbridge, a woman whom he personally disliked as much as most every other person in the wizarding community did. However, after several failed attempts at deciphering subsection seven, line four, which was written with sloppy penmanship that definitely wasn't Dolores' in a peculiar deep red ink that eerily reminded him of blood, he gave up, crumpling the law and tossing it in the rubbish bin across the room which called out "Nice shot! Two points!" upon the arrival of the paper projectile.

He slumped in his black leather-padded chair, his head resting in his hands and his mane of hair falling over his prematurely-lined face. _Why did I ever want to be Minster of Magic?_ he thought to himself grimly. The paranoia was horrendous, so much that he sometimes wished it would just be over, that the Death Eaters would just get him so he wouldn't have to worry anymore about the problems of every single goddamn wizard who worked for him nor listen to the incessant and irregular beating of his worn heart. His eyes kept flickering back and forth between the door of his office and the fireplace, now even more than it had when he had first been appointed after Cornelius Fudge's dismissal, and the reason was obvious: The Ministry had been infiltrated; even he could not deny that any loner, but it didn't make things much easier. No, instead it had placed even more responsibility on his shoulders, adding on to his daily load and tripling the paranoia he had.

_I'm even paranoid in my own office! _he though feverishly. It should have been quite the contrary: his personal quarters were protected beyond belief. Numerous protection spells had been placed on the wooden doors and oak-paneled walls by Gringotts goblins for a hefty fee he had paid for himself, two highly qualified wizards from the Office of Magical Law Enforcement guarded it from the outside, he had ordered the Floo Networking Crew to watch and stop any attempts of entry through the ornate fireplace against the wall, and, if against all odds someone gained entrance to the room, the familiar painting of the Message Courier, a man dressed in an outdated grey curly wig with an annoyingly high-pitched voice who normally resided with the Muggle English Prime Minister, could instantly alert Ministry officials of the breach in security through the neighboring portraits hung throughout the Ministry of Magic.

_Yet I still feel uneasy… _Of course, it wasn't hard to feel that way. The office was dark and depressing as it was and hardly any magic could change that. It was completely dark except for a single lit candle on his desk (the fire in the grate had been extinguished to discourage others from entering), and the bewitched false window that normally displayed a sunshiny view of the countryside had glitched to a dull grey sky overcast with clouds and a faint mist that reminded Scrimgeour of the dementors of Azkaban.

"Note to self:" he said aloud to the upright quill positioned on a small notepad in the corner of the desk. "Get Cattermole to fix the window ASAP." The quill eagerly scribbled for him, completely oblivious to its master's uneasiness.

Scrimgour looked back at his desk forlornly, one drawer in particular holding his attention longer than the others. _Now's not a bad time to review the list, _he thought to himself, though with a bit of hesitation. It was a list of his own compiling, but it still didn't make it easier to read and sort through. After all, the names on the list were all of colleagues he had known for years. Just the thought that one of them could be a Death Eater gave him the chills.

"Come on," he coaxed himself, opening the topmost drawer of the sturdy desk. _The faster you complete the list and send it to Magical Law Enforcement, the faster the Ministry'll be ridded of them._

Still, it took a bit of effort to pull out the page and it didn't help that the window decided to light the room with a streak of lightning and resonance of thunder at that exact moment, but once the list was out, Scrimgeour had to admit that he felt a bit better.

"Getting down to business," he muttered, picking up a sharpened quill, one that wasn't bewitched. He didn't trust anyone and or anything with this task except for himself, and that was that.

However, it was at that moment that the fireplace burst to life, emerald flames flaring in the hearth and flooding the room with a sickly burst of green light too reminiscent of a certain curse. Scrimgeour immediately dropped the quill and replaced it with his wand, an Ollivander creation, thirteen inches long, walnut, with a dragon heartstring. He pointed it firmly at the figure appearing in the fireplace as he shakily stood up, beads of sweat forming on his receding hairline.

However, once the figure became clearer, he lowered his wand. "Thicknesse, what the hell were you thinking coming through that way!? You nearly gave me a heart attack!"

Pius Thicknesse stepped into the office from the hearth, his long robes trailing behind him. His forehead was high, his black hair streaked with grey, and his eyes unusually dark. _But yet again, _Rufus thought, _he _is_ head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. And with all the problems of late, no one has been getting enough sleep around here._

He shook his head, sitting back down in his desk. "I expect you have brought some dire news to have taken the grate. Which, by the way, gives me the right to know how you were able to come in?" There was a tone of suspicion in his voice.

But Thicknesse already had his answer. "The Floo Department gave me access once they saw it was me. I'm head of Magical Law Enforcement; what I say goes."

Rufus sighed. "Idiots, all of them," he muttered, pocketing his wand at the thought of inept employees. "Anyone could have impersonated you with Polyjuice Potion!" He closed his eyes wearily, reclining back in the chair. "Remind me to send them a strongly-worded owl about that, Pius."

However, Thicknesse didn't reply. Instead, he did two things so quickly that Rufus never would have believed possible for a man his size had he not seen it with his own eyes. First he aimed his wand at the Minister himself and shouted, "_Incarcero!"_ immediately binding Scrimgeour in thick black ropes that severely limited his breathing, and then, turning immediately to the picture frame displaying the flabbergasted eighteenth century Messenger, he called out, "_Orafin Angustus!" _making the man in the portrait's attempt to alert the officials fail miserably as he was stuck in the rectangular confines of his frame, unable to do anything except watch the scene in horror.

Scrimgeour, however, felt his heart beating more erratically than ever as he tried to draw a breath. He was quite certain one of his ribs was broken from the strength of the spell and the ropes refused to loosen as he squirmed. As for his wand, it was uselessly stowed away in his pocket.

_Don't panic, _he told himself firmly in his mind, his eyes darting around the room desperately for an idea. _One of the guards would have heard the spell and will alert someone. Yes, they'll be in any moment and I'll be free. I just have to keep Thicknesse occupied until then._

However, at that exact moment, the fireplace burst into flames once more, evaporating any hope that Rufus had immediately as he laid his eyes on the horrific figure before him emerging lithely from the flames: Lord Voldemort.


	2. The Dark Lord

**Disclaimer: **All of these characters belong to the talented J.K. Rowling, not me. With that said...

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Voldemort was tall and pale, his eyes mere red slits, and his cloak looked as if it had been fashioned from all of the dark things in the world that you could find lurking in the shadows. His face was smooth and hairless, more reptilian than human, and he was an imposing figure reeking of evil and horrific things that Scrimgeour couldn't even bear to think about. The Minister almost forgot to breathe at the sight of him.

The Dark Lord stepped out of the hearth and wandered around the room with an amused expression on his face, gazing upon the numerous plaques on the walls and smiling as he approached Scrimgeour, bound in shining black ropes at his desk. "Ah, Minister," he said in a voice as cold as ice, yet just as smooth. "At last, we formally meet." He gave a mock bow, his red eyes never leaving Rufus' terrified face. "I do regret it happening under such _strained_ conditions, but I do believe you saw it coming."

"What do you want?" Scrimgeour choked out, the ropes clinging to him squeezing tighter and tighter and the throbbing pain from the broken rib forcing lights to dance before his eyes.

Voldemort continued to smile, pulling out his wand and flourishing it as if it was merely a conductor's baton, not a lethal instrument of death. "Just to chat a bit, discuss some things. But first, let me relieve you of something." He flicked his wand, Scrimgeour's own flying out of his pocket to land in Voldemort's long, thin fingers. The Minister's heart thundered in his chest.

However, Voldemort didn't seem to have much of an interest in the wand. Instead, he handed it over to a clearly Imperiused Thicknesse and instead approached the desk, his eyes on the list Scrimgeour had been about to sort through. "What's this?" he asked, picking it up and scanning it. Another smile formed of his face, making his features almost appear distorted. "Ah, a list of possible Death Eater Ministry employees. Missing quite a few, I have to say Scrimgeour, and I see Thicknesse here never made it. Tis a shame you didn't catch it sooner… but I haven't come all this way to discuss that." He folded the paper and stowed it away in his cloak. "Actually, there's another subject that interests me quite a bit more, a certain Harry Potter… And my sources say, Rufus, that you know his current whereabouts. So what have you to say to that?"

Rufus felt himself clam up as Voldemort looked directly into his eyes. He knew the Dark Lord was powerful at Legilimency, but as the ex-Head of the Auror Department, he had been trained, too, and quickly adverted his eyes, clearing his head. "I have no clue where the boy is," he said quickly, though it was a blatant lie. He had seen him just yesterday while he had gone to deliver the items proportioned to him, Ronald Weasley, and Hermione Granger from Albus Dumbledore's will. Of course, their encounter hadn't left them both on good terms. An argument had quickly ensued, ending with them both at wand-point…

"Really," Lord Voldemort hissed as he leaned in close to the Minister, his wand pointed at his throat and his breath smelling stale and dead. "That's funny, because I don't seem to believe you, Rufus, and no one lies to Lord Voldemort. _Crucio!"_

White hot pain suddenly erupted all over Scrimgeour's body. He felt as if all of his bones had been replaced with molten lead and cried out in pain, his body writhing in the ropes and his broken rib painfully digging into his lungs, threatening to perforate its thin lining. And then, as quickly as it had started, Lord Voldemort jerked his wand away and the pain stopped.

Voldemort frowned. "I'm not amused by insubordination, Minister," he said, a hint of anger in his voice. "Lord Voldemort can make this easy on you, a quick death, and no more pain or suffering. But first, the boy. You may think that you can fool the Dark Lord, but I can see it in your eyes. You know his whereabouts and I'd advise you tell me _now!"_

With that, another burst of pain came, stronger, more powerful than the one before, but Scrimgeour refused to speak, more for the sake of stalling than for saving Harry Potter. For as soon as he revealed the truth, he knew it would be over, the life he had clung to for so long would end, cut short by a flash of green light. So he kept his jaw clenched in defiance even through his cries of pain. _Please, _he thought desperately. _Someone come help me!_

It was at that moment that a strange occurrence arose. Maybe it had magically heard his thought, or maybe it was just a coincidence, but just at that moment, the stationary Messenger Courier on the wall, who had been confined to his frame, became animated, calling out in earnest, "He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named is here! In the Minister's chamber, torturing him! Someone! Help! Please!" He squeaked as loud as he could, hoping that someone could hear his cries through the thick walls of the office, but Voldemort glanced at it as if it was some annoying gnat and with a quick "_Reducto!_" the man and his portrait was gone, leaving just a smoking piece of drywall and a twisted frame.

Rufus's eyes widened at the portrait's annihilation, but a defiant thought had slipped into his head, putting a smile on his face, though terrified he was. "Someone'll hear me," he said giddily, not caring that Lord Voldemort could hear him. In fact, he _wante_d him to hear, he _wanted_ the Dark Lord to discover the hole in his plan. "There's two guards outside the door," he informed him coolly, "and every time you try your little Unforgivable Curse on me, they'll hear and come in."

But Lord Voldemort seemed to find this amusing rather than surprising. In fact, he headed away from the Minister slowly (after first making sure Thicknesse had his eyes on Scrimgeour) and with his white fist rapped loudly on the door, loud enough that someone on the other side should have heard and answered. But no on came in.

Scrimgeour paled, imagining stunned or even dead guards collapsed outside of the door. "What… what did you do to them?"

"For once, nothing at all," Voldemort said, turning back to face him, a smile on his face. "You out of all people should know that the Minister's door is Imperturbable; the guards can't hear a thing, not a whisper or shriek or cry of pain. After all, the Minister's privacy is important; you don't want people _eavesdropping_."

With that final point made, Scrimgeour knew he was done for. His final hope had been squashed and destroyed like the painting on the wall. There was no way anyone was coming to save him, no way in hell, and fear had finally begun to set in, clawing away at him from the inside out, a pain worse than the Cruciatus Curse.

Voldemort, who had clearly known this from the start, approached him again. "Now, I'm going to ask you again, for the final time: _Where is Harry Potter_?"

There was the option of just telling him, an option of no more pain and a quick, easy death, but for some reason Scrimgeour seemed unable to open his mouth to say the obvious, to fess up, and it had nothing to do with a Tongue-Tying Curse. It suddenly dawned on him that what he had thought of as an instinct of survival was nothing more than cowardice. He had only been in office for a year, a year where he could have done much more. He had belittled the Dark Lord's effects on the world and made false statements to _The Daily Prophet_ when he should have been trying to help stop it all. Harry Potter had been right; instead of fighting he had locked himself in his office to fiddle around with a Snitch, a Deluminator, and an ancient book of fairy tales. He didn't deserve to be Minister. But he was determined to change that, to make his final seconds in office count. He was going to make up for it all and spend his last minutes on earth strong and heroic, like the lion so many people said he resembled. He was an Auror, and that's what Aurors did. So, taking a deep breath and putting a smile of his own on his face, one that he knew would be his last, he turned to look Voldemort full in the face and simply said, "No idea."

Voldemort's eyes flashed a red so crimson that it looked as if he eyes were filled with blood. "How _DARE_ you defy me! _CRUCIO!_"

Pain, pain more intense than anything he had ever felt, ever _dreamed _possible, ripped Scrimgeour apart inside, his mouth open in a shriek of agony and his eyes rolling uncontrollably back into and out of his skull. His glasses fell of the bridge of his nose, shattering on top of his desk and papers that would be useless to him where he was heading, and just when he didn't think he could take it anymore, Lord Voldemort hissed, "So be it, Minister. Protect the boy, and die! _Avada Kedavra_!"

There was a flash of green light, so intense it lit up the room and was reflected in all three of the room inhabitant's eyes… and then he was gone. Rufus Scrimgeour, Minister of Magic, was dead.

The room was silent, but only for a moment. Lord Voldemort, who seemed utterly unfazed by what had just happened, turned away from the body to face the other occupant of the room. "Thicknesse," he ordered, raising his voice so that there was no mistake that it was a command, "put the ex-Minister's wand on his desk; we don't want the Ministry to accuse you of being an accomplice to this homicide, not when you're about to be promoted to Minister of Magic."

Thicknesse obeyed, putting the walnut wand back on the desk as Lord Voldemort called out, "_Scourgify!_" to remove any offensive fingerprints.

"Now," the Dark Lord commanded, slipping his wand back up his sleeve, "seeing as Scrimgeour was rashly uncooperative, you are to head back to Magical Law Enforcement and obtain a search and interrogation warrant for any house related to the Order of the Phoenix on the grounds of discovering Potter's location due to his involvement with Albus Dumbledore's murder. Get a team together to head over and make sure Yaxley, Runcorn, and a few others in the bunch. By time you're done, the body should have been discovered. Do not tell anyone that it was I who told you to do this; everything has been told to you from higher authority. Now go."

Thicknesse nodded and immediately headed over to the large fireplace, scooping up some sparkling Floo Powder from a pocket sewn on the inside of his long cloak, threw it in, and called out, "Ministry of Magic, Atrium," as he stepped inside. The emerald flames engulfed him and within moments, he was gone.

Lord Voldemort gracefully followed, his cloak trailing behind him like a deranged and darkened wedding gown train, and as he didn't give a single glance back towards the dead Minister slumped at his desk, bound still in the ropes, he didn't notice that on his lifeless face was the remnant of the last defiant smile he had given, the smile that had given him the strength to help protect Harry Potter, the last hope the world had to defeat the Dark Lord...

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**Author's Note**: More is still on the way. Please read and review, thanks!


	3. The Muggle Prime Minister

**Disclaimer: **All of these characters belong to J.K. Rowling, and the whole "chim chim cher-oo" thing is from the Mary Poppins song _Chim Chim Cher-Ee._

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_BANG!_

"HOLY SHIT! WHAT THE HELL…!"

The Muggle Prime Minister stood up immediately from his desk at the sound of the loud _bang_, initially thinking it was gunshot from some psychotic serial killer or a hidden bomb in his office. However, as his gaze flitted around the room, he realized it was neither, though what appeared to really have happened seemed a bit more far-fetched. The portrait, _the despised portrait, _that normally portrayed a froglike man in a silver curly wig that had forever hung on his wall, refusing to come down, had exploded.

The Prime Minister put his hand to his pounding head, his heart racing at the sight of the blackened smithereens staining the wall and floor. The gold frame had blasted apart, the canvas had disintegrated, and the wall was smoking, which led to the inevitable happenings of the fire alarm going off… and, of course, the overhead fire sprinklers turning on.

"Shit, shit, shit!" he shouted as water rained down from above, his black tailored suit now officially soaked, his grey hair damp and unruly, and all of the papers on his desk becoming nothing more than inky pulp. He normally considered himself quite calm when things out of the ordinary happened, but this was too much, even for a man of his composure. So, taking a deep breath, he bellowed, "SHACKLEBOLT!" at the top of his lungs, trying to be heard over the dreadful racket the fire alarm was causing.

The door to his office immediately flew open, revealing an imposing man: tall, bald, black, dressed in a button-down shirt with khaki trousers and leather shoes… and in his outstretched arm a slender piece of wood that the Prime Minister would have found slightly comical had he not known what it could do.

His heart rate slowed at the sight of Kingsley Shacklebolt, a trusted adviser who just happened to be, well… a wizard. He knew how ridiculous it sounded (he had often muttered it to himself whilst in the shower or dressing in the morning) but it was true: there really were wizards in London and miraculously, one of them happened to work for him.

The first thing Kingsley did was point to the blaring smoke alarm on the ceiling and mutter, "_Silencio_." The high-pitched beep immediately died away. He also added, _"Arreto!"_ to the sprinklers which stopped spewing water at his command.

"Thank you," the Prime Minister said meekly, glancing at Kingsley out of the corner of his eye and wondering whether it had been a mistake to shout curse words at the top of his lungs and then bellow for such an imposing wizard.

"What happened?" Kingsley asked slowly, his brown eyes already on the destroyed painting.

"Spontaneous Combustion?" the Prime Minister offered weakly. He honestly had no idea; as far as he knew, even wizard portraits didn't just blow up unprompted, although he was somewhat relieved that he didn't have to deal with it anymore. The Messenger Courier painting had always given him the creeps, especially the fact that it had always been the bearer of bad news. But yet again, he thought himself lucky that he hadn't had to deal with it in the past month while the canvas had been completely blank, save for the mud-colored background. Kingsley had mentioned that it had been staying with the Minister of Magic and by all means, that was fine with him.

Kingsley quickly shut the door that led out of the office and with a whisper of "_Colloportus!"_ the sound of the lock clicking shut could be heard. The Prime Minister inwardly flinched; all of this magic was making his head spin.

"This," Shacklebolt started slowly, "isn't good. Now tell me: when this happened, was there anyone else in here with you?"

"No, of course not!" the Minister protested. "I was just going through some papers when it exploded!" He paused, looking up at Kingsley who towered over him by a few inches. "Do _you_ know what happened? Was it a bomb? Faulty wiring in the wall?"

"Minister, this portrait was destroyed magically and seeing as you didn't do it…"

He trailed off, his dark eyes widening, and without another word he headed over to the fireplace, a great marble monument that the Prime Minister had always liked until he had found out that it was a form of wizarding transportation.

"Where are you going?" he asked nervously as Kingsley pulled out some sparkling powder from his pocket.

"The Ministry of Magic. If what happened is what I think, Rufus Scrimgeour's life is in grave danger." He threw the powder into the flames which immediately turned bright green.

_Scrimgeour? _The Prime Minister thought to himself, wondering why the name sounded familiar, and then it clicked. _That's the other Minister! The one who I met for five minutes last summer! What the… _"Wait!" he called to Kingsley, before the wizard could step in the flames. "You're leaving me here? Wh-what if the wall explodes again?"

Kingsley thought it over quickly, eying the locked door and weighing the pros and cons in his head. Finally he answered, "You're right. You'll have to come with me."

The Prime Minister instantly paled. "Me? Come with _you? _In _there?_" He had been trying to stop Kingsley from leaving, not asking to come along into a fireplace and chim chim cher-oo away! But Kingsley had made up his mind and had grasped his dank arm tightly.

"Minister, your safety is as big of a concern as Scrimgeour's is, and I can't leave you here under these circumstances. Now come, step into the flames; they won't burn, I promise. Now, I'm not sure how well this will work, so just hold on to me tightly," he said, despite the Minister's feeble protests. "We need to hurry; we don't have much time."

The PM winced as he was dragged into the flames, but was pleasantly surprised that Kingsley had been right when he'd said they didn't burn; in fact, they almost seemed to tickle him. But it still didn't make him any less nervous.

"Has this been done before?" he asked timidly. "You know, taking a non-wizard through?"

"Do you really want me to answer that, sir?" Kingsley asked in a tone that could either be serious or joking, and before the Prime Minister could answer, Shacklebolt called out in a clear voice, "Ministry of Magic, Atrium!"

The Prime Minister suddenly felt as if he was being sucked down a drain. He clung to Kingsley's arm tightly as his office suddenly disappeared and he started spinning uncontrollably. Images of fireplaces whipped before his eyes, his elbow jarred against something that felt like stone, causing his funny bone to painfully vibrate for a few seconds before he tucked it, and the soot made it so hard to see that he ended up closing his eyes. But that didn't make the experience any better. He could still taste the thick, sooty air, and just when he thought he was about to throw up his lunch, the spinning sensation ceased and Kingsley dragged him out of the fireplace they had arrived at.

"Sorry about that, Prime Minister," Kingsley apologized, glancing at the Minister's suit which was now completely ruined, stained with soot, and torn near the elbows. "I'm sure we can have it mended once this nightmare's over."

But for once the Prime Minister wasn't concerned with his suit. Instead, his eyes were wandering all around the gigantic atrium they had entered. The ceiling was a brilliant blue that reminded him of clear summer skies, the floor was polished immaculately, marble fireplaces like the one he had just stepped out of lined the entire wall, and an enormous gold fountain stood in the center portraying figures of a man, woman, and other various magical creatures spewing water out of various points.

"_The Fountain of Magical Brethren_ hasn't been quite right since Lord Voldemort and his Death Eaters invaded last summer," Kingsley pointed out, following the Minister's line of sight as he quickly led him across the hall, past the staring wizards who had taken a break from their various activities to catch a glance of the two strange men wearing Muggle attire. "Magical Maintenance tried to fix it as well as they could, but I think it looked much better before. You know, all the money people throw into it goes to St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries."

The Prime Minister had no clue what he was talking about –_Who in the world is St. Mumbo Jumbo? _he thought to himself– and was about to ask him to reiterate when a short witch with flyaway grey hair approached them, looking more frazzled than he had ever seen anyone before.

"Kingsley," she greeted quickly, after a curious glance at the disheveled Prime Minister next to him, "thank goodness I found you. Pius Thicknesse just came up to me a few minutes ago. He's getting some people from the Department of Magical Law Enforcement together to head over to every Harry Potter related location in England. They're trying to discover his whereabouts, something about his relation to Dumbledore's death. Rubbish, all of it, but I just thought you ought to know."

Kingsley's eyes widened at the words. "The Weasleys are having a wedding today at their place. I've got to warn them; I don't think their guests will appreciate a team of Ministry employees flooding in. Thanks Mafalda."

"Anytime," she replied and scurried off.

"Come on," Kingsley said to the Prime Minister, more determined than ever to get to Level One and see if Rufus was okay.

"Who was that?" the PM asked as they raced along; Kingsley's long strides made it hard to keep up. "And who's Pius Thicknesse?"

"The witch was Mafalda Hopkirk, head of the Improper Use of Magic Department.," Kingsley started, stopping as they reached a long row of magically-operated elevator lifts. "As for Thicknesse, he's Head of Magical Law Enforcement which means that he's most likely next in line to be Minister of Magic. The thing is, there's a strong chance he's under the Imperius curse, which means that Lord Voldemort has access to everything he does which will jeopardize the safety of the Ministry. But what concerns me more than that is that if Thicknesse was ordered to get together a team of Ministry employees to search for Harry Potter, it can only mean that Scrimgeour was completely out of his mind at the request… or something else."

He didn't need to say what the "something else" was for the Muggle Prime Minister to get a bad feeling in the pit of his stomach, a bad feeling that wouldn't desert him as they boarded the lifts.

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**Author's Note:** This chapter was _extremely _fun to write, emphasis on "extremely," though I do apologize for the cursing at the start. It isn't as somber as the others, so maybe that's why. It was getting too long, so I had to split it up, but I think it'll work better this way. 

Please review, and thank you everyone who has read and enjoyed it so far! Without you, my words would be nothing but wasted figures on a computer screen… Sorry, that was a bad attempt at being poetic. : )


	4. Discovering the Body

**Disclaimer:** All of these characters belong to J.K. Rowling except for Orion and Korvitz who came out of my own head and are mine.

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The lifts were crowded even before Kingsley Shacklebolt and the Muggle Prime Minister boarded, filled with many people in long cloaks, wands either tucked away or by their sides in their grasps, and magical flying paper airplanes that flitted about in the air above their heads. The walls were smooth and shiny and the golden gates in front closed with a light _tang!_

There were at least seven others in the elevator, three witches and four wizards varying in height, weight, and appearance, but they all seemed to shift a bit as the PM entered, trying to get a better look at the strange man who had nailed dressing like a Muggle to a tee. The Minister felt uncomfortable as he settled by the wall, knowing that he stuck out like a sore thumb. After all, it was common knowledge that Kingsley dressed as Muggle, but he, in his torn, sooty, damp suit made the other employees wonder who he was and how in the world did he ever get a job at The Ministry of Magic.

The lift suddenly started moving upward, the sounds of chains rattling, and within a few seconds, the door pinged open and a cool female voice out of nowhere said, "Level seven, Department of Magical Games and Sports, incorporating the British and Irish Quidditch League Headquarters, Official Gobstones Club, and Ludicrous Patents Office."

A few people got out and a few more came in and the lift was on the rise again. The Prime Minister thought it was all very efficient, but Kingsley in the other hand seemed agitated, shifting from foot to foot from his spot right next to the doors, his hand fingering the grip of his wand sticking out of one of his trousers' pockets.

"Can't this thing go any faster," he murmured slowly to no one in particular, but he waited it out as patiently as he could as the lift continued its ascent and more and more people filtered in and out.

After five floors of waiting, the Prime Minister was getting antsy, too. He didn't like how everyone kept staring at him, and the voice that called out each floor was starting to get on his nerves. However, when the voice announced, "Level one, Minister Magic and Support Staff," as soon as the door opened, Kingsley burst out, almost running into a plump witch who somewhat resembled a toad and wore a big fuchsia bow on top of her head like some rejected Christmas present.

_I wonder if she's related to the Message Courier in that portrait, _the Prime Minister thought to himself as he edged his way around her bulk and disapproving gaze and started following Kingsley who had taken up a jog down the long corridor ahead.

The entire floor seemed to be made up of one long purple-carpeted hallway lined with shiny wooden doors. As he ran along, the Minister couldn't help but see that each door also bore a small gold plaque with the owner's name and occupation engraved on it.

After a long and seemingly never-ending jog down a seemingly never-ending corridor, Kingsley suddenly stopped in front of a tall door at the way end. The Prime Minister was wondering why Kingsley had halted so abruptly and not entered when he noticed that two men in long cloaks were guarding the door, their wands extended at both Kingsley and himself.

The Minister stopped in mid-step, his heart beating as he gazed upon the two men. Although they weren't as tall as Kingsley, they still were quite large and just as intimidating. One had thick black hair and dark eyebrows, while the other had straw-colored hair and brown eyes. But it was the wands that they held that really scared him. He knew what they could do besides locking doors and stopping smoke alarms, and most of them weren't pleasant.

Although the Prime Minister found himself flabbergasted, Kingsley didn't seem to find his speech hindered at all. "I need to get in there right now; the Minister's life is in grave danger," he said calmly to them, though the guards didn't seem to listen.

"What did I get on my Transfiguration NEWT back in our seventh year?" the black-haired man demanded, his wand barely an inch away from one of the buttons on Kingsley's shirt.

_What in the world? _the Prime Minister thought to himself, hoping to God that Kingsley knew what he was talking about, but he needn't have worried. Shacklebolt easily replied, "You got an E, Korvitz, and you weren't very happy about might I add, even though it's the second highest grade there is. Now please let me in."

Korvitz put down his wand, the fierce expression on his face easing up to become one much more lighthearted. "Sorry about that, Kingsley," he apologized to his old Hogwarts friend. "You know how it is; Ministry rules. I had to make sure it was you and not some imposter. Of course, without any hair it would be quite a task to get some of your DNA," he added with a bit of a chuckle. "Now what brings you here? And who's that with you?"

"My concern for the Minister's safety brings me here," Kingsley said vaguely, "and this right here is the Muggle Prime Minister."

Korvitz's and his buddy's expressions suddenly turned to shock.

"That's… that's the _other Minister_?" the blond man asked, his features in disbelief as he took in the ratty man before him.

"Yes he is, Orion. He was in his office this morning when the portrait of the Message Courier suddenly exploded. And you should know what it means if that picture was somehow destroyed, especially with all of the Permanent Sticking Charms and such attached to it."

Orion's eyes widened. "But that means it was destroyed magically. How… was anyone else in the room?"

Kingsley shook his head as the Prime Minister listened to the conversation entirely confused.

"Wait a minute," Korvitz interrupted, his eyes narrowing. "Are you suggesting that the Message Courier's specifically enchanted match was destroyed? Shacklebolt, you know that's impossible! The only other painting with him painted on it is in here." He gestured to the door behind him. "And believe me when I say that no one came through these doors all day. Not a single soul."

"There are more ways for Who-Know-Who to get inside besides using the door," Kingsley said grimly. "There is a fireplace in there."

"No way," Orion said adamantly. "That's completely impossible. Beside, if…" he lowered his voice, "_You-Know-Who_ was in there, we would have heard. I mean, doesn't he normally _torture _is victims first? Scrimgeour wouldn't be stupid enough to try to muffle his screams if he knew it would help save him."

"The door's Imperturbable," Kingsley said quickly, knowing he was running out of time. "Of course you two wouldn't have heard anything! Now please let me in!"

"Sorry, Kingsley, but no can do. That would be against orders. We're not to let anyone in except the Minister himself."

Kingsley felt frustration build inside of him, something that never normally happened unless he had been pushed to his limits. He knew that he could easily stun the two, but that would result with a bunch of questions, a visit from the Wizengamot, and would probably ruin the friendship that he'd had with them for years. But he had one last chance to get inside, one that he wasn't sure about facing because it would confirm that he had run out of time to save Scrimgeour. But still, it was his last chance…

"Check the door plaque," he said grimly. "Turn around and check."

"Okay," Korvitz said with a shrug. "If that'll make you happy." The large man turned around towards the door he had guarded all day and glanced down at the gold plaque. It was definitely larger than all of the others with a nice fancy flourish under the words "Minister if Magic," however, it was the name on top that made him pale, for it no longer read "Rufus Scrimgeour." Instead, engraved in beautiful script, was the name "Pius Thicknesse."

"Pius Thicknesse," Orion read aloud, his features shifting to horror. "Oh shit!" With that he immediately pointed to the door with his wand. "Alohomora!"

The lock clicked open and the blond guard immediately shoved his weight against the door, opening it clumsily. The four men then raced into the office, three wizards and one Muggle, and there, bound in ropes, slumped at his desk in his chair, was Rufus Scrimgeour, ex-Minister of Magic.

"No," Korvitz mumbled, approaching the limp body, his legs shaking as if they couldn't hold his weight. "No, no, this can't be…. This can't be!" His eyes were welling with tears. "I can't believe it. It's all my fault. I… I should have… could have…"

"It's not your fault," Kingsley said, his voice calming, though his eyes were set only on the dead Minister's body. _At least he was smiling at the end, _he thought, catching the lingering smile on Rufus' prone face.

"I… I can't believe it," Orion muttered, backing away from the desk, his eyes moving away from the body to the destroyed fragments of the portrait on the wall. "You… You-Know-Who… he… he was here, and… and…" He gulped, glancing at Kingsley. "Is… is he really dead?"

"I'm pretty sure," Kingsley said, walking past the frozen Muggle Prime Minister who was staring in horror at the dead Rufus Scrimgeour to his friend, "but Orion, I think you should get a Healer from St. Mungo's here ASAP. Maybe a few others from Magical Law Enforcement, too."

"Got it," he responded, gladly racing out of the room, hoping that darting down the hall as fast as possible would get the horrible image of his dead boss out of his mind.

"What's _The Daily Prophet_ going to say about this?" Korvitz muttered in a daze, his eyes cast downward on the floor.

"They'll never admit it," Kingsley said bitterly. "They'll probably say some rubbish like he's resigned or gone on holiday." He paused for a second, glancing around the room, and then, suddenly remembering Mafalda's warning, pulled out his wand and muttered, "_Expecto Patronum_!" A silver lynx suddenly appeared, looking up at him with its intelligent eyes as he pronounced clearly for it to hear, "The Ministry has fallen. Scrimgeour is dead. They are coming."

With that, the lynx gave a nod and suddenly darted off in a flash of silvery light.

"What was that for?" Korvitz asked.

"Thicknesse was gathering some Ministry employees to head over to every Harry Potter related location in England to interrogate people on his whereabouts. The Burrow is probably tops on the list and the Weasleys happen to be hosting a wedding today. I just wanted to warn them."

"Where'd he get the permission to do that?" Korvitz asked angrily, trying to drown out the horrible guilt he was feeling with a different emotion.

"It doesn't matter anymore," Kingsley said slowly, turning away from him to look back at Scrimgeour's body. "Thicknesse is the new Minister of Magic; he can do whatever he wants now."


	5. A Slight Alteration of Thought

**Disclaimer:** All of these characters belong to the wonderfully talented J.K. Rowling except for Orion, Korvitz, Kelver, and Celia, who were created by me.

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_"Ignorance is bliss..." - Thomas Gray_

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The healers came as soon as they received Orion's urgent Patronous, the two young men rushing into Scrimgeour's office dressed in their lime-green robes emblazoned with the St. Mungo's Hospital's insignia on them: a bone crossed with a wand. With a quick "_Diffindo!_" the black ropes hugging the ex-Minister's body were cut away, and a few complicated wand gestures were performed resulting in the verdict Kingsley had known would come: Rufus Scrimgeour was officially dead.

"Whoever killed him first used the Cruciatus Curse a good number of times," one of the healers added after his examination, pocketing his wand, "and it was after he was bound in ropes. That explains the bruising on his chest. A normal Incarcerous Curse wouldn't have done that, though it did cause him a broken a rib."

"Thank you," Kingsley replied slowly to the healers, his hand rubbing his weary face. "I'll take it from here."

The two healers nodded and scurried out of the room, thankful to be out of the crime scene.

And a crime scene it was. A team of specialized wizards from Magical Law Enforcement had come no less than a minute after the healers had entered, arriving from the second level of the Ministry to examine everything in the room that could possibly be linked to the murder. They were quite efficient, looking at absolutely everything: the annihilated portrait, the strange placement of Rufus' wand, the desk, his papers, his chair, the walls, the broken bewitched window that was cackling with lightning, the floors, the hanging plaques of his achievements as an ex-Auror, framed wizarding photos taken of him and his family, and finally the grand marble fireplace. Ten minutes after that they had contacted Floo Network Authority on the sixth level and traced the fireplace to try to discern who the homicidal wizard had been, but to add to the confusion, it appeared the murderer had come from a fireplace inside the Ministry itself!

"If it's You-Know-who, he had help from inside," one man with a bushy mustache from the department noted, but Kingsley had already guessed the same: the Ministry was infiltrated and it was just going to get worse with Thicknesse in charge.

"Someone still has to notify Pius," the dark-haired Korvitz pointed out as if on cue from his spot leaning against the wall. Despite his bulk, in the past half-hour he had started losing his intimidation factor. His skin was pale and his dark eyes looked dim.

"Pius can find out in due time," Kingsley said calmly. "What we need to worry about now is Scrimgeour. His will needs to be fulfilled, his family notified, and a funeral has to be planned."

"I'll get on it," Korvitz offered with a nod, heading out of the office to clear his head and possibly snag a firewhiskey.

Shacklebolt sighed, his face in his hands as the workers from Magical Law Enforcement buzzed around the office like Cornish Pixies. He needed to get out of the room for some air, or at least some space. Although he had assured Korvitz and Orion that it was neither of their faults for Scrimgeour's death, he couldn't help but feel as if he was to blame. _Maybe if I hadn't taken the Prime Minister with me I would have gotten there before Voldemort could finish him off…_ But he knew that it wouldn't have mattered. Even if he had dashed out of the office on 10 Downing Street into the fireplace without the Muggle, sprinted up the six flights of Ministry of Magic stairs and then raced down the carpeted hallway as fast as he could, he knew he wouldn't have made it in time. Scrimgeour had died and there was nothing he could've done to stop it. The realization didn't make him feel much better, though.

"I'll be back," he said to no one in particular, walking out of the room into the purple-carpeted hallway, but once he got there he ran into someone he had almost forgotten about: the Muggle Prime Minister.

_He's not taking this well, _Kingsley observed as he looked at the Minister, though he wasn't sure if it was just because he looked so battered in his ratty suit. But then he noticed the expression on his face, the blank expression he had seen on so many people once they've caught a glimpse of death. He was quite sure it was mirrored on his own face, too, and he wasn't sure how he felt about it.

"The other Minister… dead," the Prime Minister muttered emptily. "I… I just can't believe it. It seems so farfetched, I had never thought it would happen… and he was just _lying_ there…" He trailed off, then added quietly, "I understand death, but just seeing him like that… I'm just not sure what I'm going to do."

Kingsley felt guilt twinge his heart. When he had dragged the Prime Minister along, he hadn't expected on finding a dead body. _It must be affecting him even more since he's a minister, too. Maybe not of the Ministry of Magic, but he has his own country to run and with Voldemort at large... _He didn't even want to think about what would happen if Voldemort got hold of him, and the Prime Minister was probably wondering the same thing.

_But what if I… _Kingsley suddenly thought to himself, an idea forming. _It may not solve much, but it'll at least put his mind at rest._ _But we'd have to do it now, before Thicknesse tries to stop us… It all depends on him._

Shacklebolt turned back to him. "Minister," he started rather hesitantly, "I'm not sure if you know this, but here at the Ministry, we have a team of wizards called Obliviators who specialize in memory modification. If you want we could…"

The Prime Minister looked up at him, his expression mixed with confusion and a slight shade of hope. "You could…?" he prompted.

"They could alter your memory, a slight, fine-tuned procedure to give you a bit of ease-of-mind. If you want, I could arrange it for you to completely forget that you've come here and of Scrimgeour's death."

The Minister's face twisted, a mask hiding his thoughts. At one point Kingsley thought he had glimpsed a trace of joy on the Prime Minister's face, but it had been quickly replaced with another, darker emotion. "Shacklebolt," he finally said, choosing his words as carefully as he could, "I… I know ignorance is… well, something people frown upon and I'm not sure if I could just choose that route and give in to it…"

"Normally I'd agree," Kingsley cut in, "but seeing Rufus Scrimgeour's death has nothing to do with you. You have a country, huge numbers of people to lead, and I think having your memory slightly altered would help you keep up your spirits and possibly save you a few nightmares in the process."

"But I can't just not know anymore!" the Minister shouted out, his voice echoing in the hallway louder than he had expected. He was as white as a sheet at his outburst, shocked that he had just said that out loud, and Kingsley was a tad bemused too, but he just closed his eyes and took a deep breath. "Listen Kingsley. When I… when Fudge first came into my office all those years ago when I had just become Minister, I wanted nothing to do with him or with the wizarding world. I really didn't care. I tried everything to get rid of that blasted portrait, I even attempted to close up the fireplace and it was all because of one thing: ignorance. It's true when they say 'ignorance is bliss,' but once I found out about this whole other world hiding in plain sight, my ignorance had shattered, and I tried to hold on to it as best as I could. Basically, I tried to flat-out ignore everything about the wizarding world and Lord What's-His-Name, etcetera, etcetera. Back then I was too immersed in ignorance to care at all. But now…" he paused taking a deep breath, "now I know that I can't keep ignoring things, hiding under the cover of ignorance when it's gone. 'Ignorance is bliss' is true, but once you find out the truth, you can't get your ignorance back and you shouldn't try. I need to know Scrimgeour is dead, even if I don't want to."

Kingsley honestly was a tad shocked at the Minister's response, though he grudgingly realized he was right: it had been naïve to think that ignorance was the key to solving all their problems. But he was still worried for the Prime Minister's sake. Seeing a dead body did have its toll on people…

_Dead body…_

An idea suddenly clicked into place. "What about this" Kingsley suggested. "You retain your memory of Scrimgeour's death, but we have the Obliviator's remove the image of the dead body?"

The Prime Minister thought for a moment, and then lightly inclined his head. "You're really set on this, aren't you?"

"I think it would be for the best," Kingsley stated honestly, sliding his hands into his pockets.

The Muggle took a deep breath. "Alright, Shacklebolt. If you think that'll help, I'll do it. But just the image, nothing more."

"Agreed," Kingsley nodded his head, feeling somewhat relieved.

"Besides," the Prime Minister added, attempting a smile, "who would want to forget about all of this? Magical fireplaces, bewitched paper airplanes? Your Ministry seems a lot more interesting than mine."

Kingsley shook his head, thinking about everything that went on there. "You have no idea." Then, gesturing for the Prime Minister to follow him, they headed down the hall.

"Obliviator Headquarters is on the third level," he explained as they headed for the lifts. He tried to ignore the sign plaques on the doors they passed, knowing that almost all of them would be altered by now, but he couldn't help but notice Dolores Umbridge's door proclaiming, "Head of the Muggle-born Registration Commission." _This is not looking good, _he thought to himself

"Kingsley," the Prime Minister interrupted cautiously, "I know this may not be the best time or anything, but do you think you could… er, have someone fix my suit?"

"Oh…, yeah sure." They had stopped in front of the lifts, waiting for the door to open, and Kingsley simply brandished his wand, pointed it as the Prime Minister and said, "_Scourgify! Reparo!" _Within seconds the threads had stretched out to each other, re-bonding at the tears, and all of the soot and ash were removed, leaving his suit as spotless as ever.

"Thank you," the Minister said gratefully, finally feeling thankful for a bit of magic in the world. _As long as it's not going to blow me up, I'm fine with it, _he thought jokingly as they boarded the lift and descended downward.

Miraculously, the lifts were just about deserted, and it didn't take long to reach the third floor.

"Level three," the disembodied female voice recited smoothly, "Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes including the Accidental Magic Reversal Squad, Obliviator Headquarters, and Muggle-Worthy Excuse Committee."

They exited and made their way down a corridor lined with doors with a few witches and wizards passing by.

"How big _is_ this place?" the Muggle Prime Minister wondered aloud.

"Not sure," Kingsley responded scanning the doors as they walked. "I don't anyone knows. Pretty big, though… Ah, here we are."

They had stopped in front of a solid door bearing a sign reading, "Obliviator Headquarters," in large letters. Magically scrolling across the bottom were the names of the Obliviators currently available for service.

"Kelver's in," Kingsley noted, reading the sign. "That's good; he's the best. No one can perform a better memory spell than him… except for perhaps Gilderoy Lockhart." He gave a good-natured smile at his joke, feeling some happiness pour back into him for the first time that day, but the PM just looked at him blankly, wondering who in the world Lockhart was and why it was so funny.

The large doors made way to a somewhat waiting room. Chairs lined the left wall, a coffee table in the center was laden with a couple of the latest issues of _The Daily Prophet _and the occasional _Quibbler,_ a hallway stretched out to their right leading to more doors concealing the rooms where the memory modification took place, and seated behind a counter managing some papers was a blond witch in emerald robes with a name tag reading, "Celia."

"Excuse me," Kingsley interrupted her, making his way to the desk with the prime Minister at his said, "But is Kelver free?"

"Yes he is, actually. I'll get him." The witch efficiently rummaged through her desk for a blank sheet of paper, wrote on it quickly with a spotted quill she had plucked from an inkwell, and then pulled out her wand to recite, "_Origamiletica! Wigardium Leviosa!_" The paper suddenly folded itself up into the shape of a paper airplane and flew away down the hall.

Celia gave a quick glance to the nervous Prime Minister and then looked back at Kingsley, pulling out another sheet of paper from her desk, this one a questionnaire. "If he's a Muggle, which is what I'm guessing," she started, attempting to hand the Auror the sheet, "and he saw something, you need to fill this out and give it to the Accidental Magic Reversal Squad so they can fix it."

"Actually," Kingsley responded, refusing the questionnaire, "this is the Muggle Prime Minister, and he's here for a slight non-magical-incident-related memory modification."

Celia wrinkled her nose. "Sir, with all due respect, I don't think we're allowed to do that…"

"Why of course we can!" came a booming voice from down the hall.

The Muggle Prime Minster looked up to find a thin, tall man with graying hair approaching him from down the hallway. He was sporting long blue robes and a name tag that bore his name: Kelver.

"Kelver," Kingsley addressed, relieved to see the older wizard, "I was wondering if you could do me a favor."

"Of course," the Obliviator responded smiling. "Anything for you, Shacklebolt. You help make my job easier by catching all of the crazies who mess with Muggles in the first place."

"Thanks. I knew I could count on you. Listen, this is the Muggle Prime Minister and I was wondering if you could slightly alter his memory for me. He saw something… unpleasant."

"What? A couple rogue hexes? Those things definitely aren't pretty."

"Actually… a dead body. Rufus Scrimgeour's to be exact. I'm not sure if you heard yet; the Minister was murdered in his office today."

The jovial man suddenly paled, his eyes widening. "W-what? The Minister's dead?" He raked his hands through his graying hair. "H-how? Who?"

"We're still figuring it out, though we have some guesses," Kingsley said grimly, "but I thought it would be better for the Prime Minister if the image was erased."

Kelver nodded. "Definitely. I'll get right on it. Are you getting a tune-up too?"

Kingsley shook his head. "I need to clear my head my own way. Thanks though."

"Anytime." Kelver turned to the Prime Minister. "Don't worry; I'll have everything back in its proper place before you know it. Now follow me."

The Prime Minister was skeptical and turned back to Kingsley for help, but the Auror just said, "Don't worry, Minister. You're in good hands."

"I hope so…" the PM muttered to himself and, giving Kingsley one last look, reluctantly followed Kelver down the hall to one of the doors, following the Obliviator inside and hoping that the procedure wasn't going to hurt.

Kingsley sighed. _At least _he_ can forget some of this nightmare._

"Excuse me," Celia, the blond secretary, interrupted. "I'm not sure if you know this or not, but to be done safely and correctly, the procedure should take about an hour. You're welcome to sit down and wait here; we have the latest issue of The Daily Prophet on the coffee table."

Kingsley shook his head. "That's okay. I have business elsewhere. I'll be back in an hour to get the Minister, though."

Celia nodded and returned to her paperwork while Kingsley headed out the door. He could feel it in his bones; things were changing, and he had a hunch it wasn't going to be for the better.

He took a deep breath. _Now let's go see the damage._

**

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**Author's Note: **I'm sorry for the delay in posts; this chapter took a while to sort through and write as it is the longest so far. Not to mention with school fast approaching I had to finish up some summer work…

Multiple millions of thanks to everyone who has reviewed and liked it so far! I think there's only going to be one more chapter, but yet again, I thought this entire thing was originally going to be a one-shot! Oh well, we'll see. In the meantime, please review! Thanks!


	6. Changes

**Disclaimer:** Everything in this story belongs to the wonderfully talented and creative J.K. Rowling, except for the quick reference to Kelver, who was created by moi.

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_"People are always telling me that change is good. But all that means is that something you didn't want to happen has happened."_ - Meg Ryan

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Kingsley started his way down the hallway, his dark eyes focused on the lifts at the far end; the plaques on the doors he passed seemed to be taunting him with their altered names, but he refused to look at them. No, instead he walked swiftly down the hall, stopped the lift with his hand before it closed, and squeezed his towering frame inside.

Shacklebolt honestly didn't know where he was heading; he just didn't want to stay still in Kelver's office. Staying still meant that he would have nothing better to do than dwell on the fact that he had been too late to save Scrimgeour, and that wasn't productive at all. So he had resolved himself to check some things out, gauge the changes that he already felt had been implemented, and figure out if there was a way to stop the Ministry from completely getting out of hand. There were only two problems: one, he didn't know where to start his search, and two, one of the paper airplane memos that normally darted across the ceiling was ramming its pointy paper nose into his shoulder.

"Ow," her murmured, swatting it away; he had always hated those things, preferring owls despite their inconvenience in the office. But the paper did not give up and zoomed its way annoyingly right in front of his face. It was then that he saw that on one of the folded wings was a messy scrawl bearing his name.

Frowning, he plucked the paper out of the air, smoothing out the lines as the disembodied elevator voice announced that they were passing Level 5. It didn't take him long to realize that it wasn't a Ministry of Magic Memo; for one, there was no watermark or heading. Instead, it seemed as if it was just a hastily scribbled note, which indeed it was.

_Kingsley,_

_Firstly, thanks for the tip-off; Molly and I were able to help get most of the wedding guests from Fleur's side of the family on their way before the Ministry officials showed up. We lost a couple of members of our rather large family in the confusion, though I expect that they'll turn up soon. Anyway, I just want to invite you over for dinner to discuss those papers we were working on last Tuesday; Molly's making her world-famous pudding. I hope you can make it._

_Arthur Weasley_

Kingsley didn't know whether to smile or scowl. His Patronous had been received which was all in all good news, but the note had been extremely vague. Of course, he knew it had all been on purpose; if the letter had been intercepted by a Death Eater, it couldn't give too much away. But Kingsley knew exactly what it meant: The missing family members had to be Hermione, Ron, and Harry; after all, to the Weasley's all three were like their children, and Arthur had mentioned that Harry had been disguised as one of their cousins for the wedding anyway. As for the bit about going over some papers, that was a complete bluff. They had never discussed anything on Tuesday, and instead, Kingsley knew it as a blatant request to meet at the Burrow ASAP.

Kingsley folded the paper and put it in his trouser pockets, knowing his next destination was the Burrow. No one would mind him leaving; after all, he came in and out of the Ministry easily since his job was to tail to the Muggle Prime Minister.

_But Kelver's taking care of him now, _he thought, _and I'll be back by time the procedure's done._

"Level eight, the Atrium."

The lifts opened and Kingsley got off as a witch with a very large hat dotted with peacock feathers made her way on. But immediately, he could tell something was wrong: The large Atrium was completely silent. Yes, there were people walking around attending to their daily business, but no one chatted with one another. In fact, they all seemed to be in a daze, their eyes all glued to the _The Fountain of Magical Brethren_ … or what was left of it anyway.

"What the…" Kinglsey breathed, rushing forward. No more than an hour ago the fountain had been up and working – yes, a tad bit on the shabby side since the beating it had taken two summers before, but still standing. Now it was being deliberately taken apart. The goblin and centaur had already been dismantled, their golden bodies lying prone on the wooden floor in the center of the Atrium, and currently the young witch's head was magically being removed.

Kingsley rushed over to the small wizard brandishing the wands responsible for the destruction of the fountain. He was short and ferrety looking, with wispy grey hair and small eyes that kept glancing around the Atrium nervously, and was dressed in the navy blue robes of the wizards working in Magical Maintenance.

"Cattermole," Kingsley hissed. Reg jumped as he turned to face him, his face pale. "What the hell are you doing?"

"Thank God it's you, Kingsley," Reg sputtered, his words practically falling out of his mouth. "I thought for a second it was Y-Yaxley or something."

"Reginald," Kingsley continued sharply, "what are you doing to the fountain?"

"It was Thicknesse's orders. He stopped by my office and told me I had to take it down… Have you heard he's M.O.M. now?"

"Unfortunately," Kingsley mumbled, looking up at the demolished statue. The once proud fountain now laid in ruins, and Kingsley couldn't help but think it as some sort of strange metaphor to the way life in the wizarding world was becoming: distraught and destroyed. "Do you know why he wanted it gone?"

Reg shrugged. "Something about a new one statue, one that would signify how the wizarding world should be." He shook his head. "I was just shocked he'd become Minister that it took all of me just to keep focused."

Kingsley shook his head. "I know exactly how you feel." He put his hands in his pockets. "Well then, I guess I'll leave this to you, Cattermole."

"Where are you off to?"

"Er…" Kingsely murmured, "Pudding."

"Pudding?"

"Yes, I'm going to discuss some papers over pudding."

"Ah, I see," he murmured, though it was clear he was confused out of his mind, as if the thought of pudding in times like these was insane. "Well, then, goodbye Kingsley."

"Yes, bye."

Kingsley turned away from him and stormed the rest of the way across the Atrium, trying not to listen to the sounds of the statue being destroyed behind him and keeping his eye trained on one of the marble fireplaces out of the Ministry.

The Floo Network couldn't be trusted, not after what had happened with Scrimgeour, so Kingsley didn't dare take the fireplace straight to the Weasley's; there was too high a chance it was being monitored. But all the same, Kingsley grabbed a bit of floo powder off the dish by the mantle, sprinkled it in the flames, and let himself be whisked away, too obsessed with the deteriorating state of the Ministry to even care that he was about to end up in a muggle toilet.

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**Author's Note:** Alrighty, I think we need an author's note because, well... It's been a year and I feel oh-so-very guilty that this took so long to write. School got in the way and it kinda got forgotten about and I give you all a HUGE apology!

Anyway, I meant for this chapter to be longer and to actually detail Kingsley's experience at the Weasley's, but I decided to save that part for next time. As for when it'll be up, I honestly don't know, but I hope it doesn't take another year.

Anyway, thanks to everyone who likes it so far! Please review and I'll try to get the next part up as soon as I can! Thanks!


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